


Fire Emblem Rarepair Week 2017 Oneshots

by pinksnowboots



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: BLESSED, Bickering, Blood, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, FE Rarepair Week 2017, Just a little bit of blood in Ch 3 but like...better safe than sorry, Laguz, M/M, Mild Kink, Relationship Study, Rest, Sparring, Unhealthy Relationships, also it involves knives so warning for that too, curious, curse, mild kink in a roundabout kinda way though, patient
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10130672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinksnowboots/pseuds/pinksnowboots
Summary: A collection of oneshots for FE Rarepair Week 2017Day 1: Tibarn/Reyson, Prompt: Blessed/Curse/RestDay 2: Kieran/Oscar, Prompt: PatientDay 3: Azama/Subaki, Prompt: CuriousEvery time Azama catches so much as a glimpse of Subaki, his fingers itch with the desire to take him apart, piece by camellia-scented piece.





	1. Galdrar (Day 1, Tibarn/Reyson, Blessing/Curse)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm all fired up for FE Rarepair week since 90% of the FE ships I love are rarepairs, so my goal is to write at least one short little thing for every day. I'm going to put them all in one fic because that'll be easier for me to keep track of, and also will motivate me to actually write something every day (hopefully)! I'm taking the prompts fairly loosely rather than literally, but I definitely kept them in mind while writing. 
> 
> If you want to chat with me about Fire Emblem rarepairs (or non-rarepairs, or FE in general), you can find me @legault (FE blog), @yuroshka (main/personal blog) or @pinksnowboots (fic blog) on tumblr!

 

Most beorc and laguz are under the incorrect impression that because herons are beings of order, and beautiful to boot, they cannot harbor darkness inside of them. Tibarn used to labor under that same misapprehension, but that was before he met Reyson.

Reyson is so beautiful that sometimes it hurts to look at him, but that pain is only the merest shadow of what Reyson can truly do.

Tibarn is among those who pluck the last remaining herons out of the burned wreckage of their home. Lorazieh is unresponsive and barely breathing.  Reyson, on the other hand, is very much alive and looks like he survived the fire by absorbing it, eyes blazing and wings covered in soot, vowing that whoever wrought this destruction on him and his people would face the same destruction in return.

Reyson insists on flying with them rather than being carried like his father and sister and glares at anyone who suggests otherwise. Tibarn lets him try, watching him rise erratically, looking for all the world like an avatar of vengeance.

He makes it several feet before his strength gives out and he begins to plummet through the air, looking for all the world like a particularly angry fallen angel.

Tibarn catches him well before he hits the ground. Reyson is incredibly light, so light that he almost feels unreal, like he lacks something grounding him on this mundane world.

Reyson’s eyes flutter, exhaustion and grief beginning to creep in as his adrenaline runs out. 

“I did not ask you to do this.” He rasps, eyes flashing angrily at Tibarn and at his own helplessness.

“I know. But I am not going to let you fall.” Tibarn tells him, unsure if he is referring to saving Reyson from crashing to the forest floor or making a promise of a much wider scope.

“Chief!” One of Tibarn’s men calls to him. “What are we going to do with the herons?”

Tibarn looks at Lorazieh, barely clinging to life. He looks at the ruins of what was once the brightest and most peaceful of the laguz kingdoms. He looks at Reyson in his arms, struggling to maintain consciousness, skin burning with rage and grief.

“We’re taking them home.” Tibarn declares, sending a wave of mutters through his troops. Tibarn is still a relatively new king, and taking in refugee herons is a bold move, especially given that Phoenicis is not particularly friendly to outsiders.

“My home is gone.” Reyson murmurs, as if speaking from a dream.

“Yes.” Tibarn says, tightening his arms around Reyson. Even if the truth is harsh, it is better than telling a lie. “But I hope that will not always be the case.”

Reyson does not reply, having finally slipped into unconsciousness. 

 

* * *

 

 

Reyson eventually becomes accustomed to Phoenicis, but Phoenicis never truly becomes accustomed to Reyson. Lorazieh fits their image of what herons are supposed to be like: beautiful, docile, and quiet. Although Reyson is beautiful, he is willful and imperious. He orders Tibarn’s servants around and wanders around the country without regards to his own safety, requiring several of Tibarn’s men to serve as escorts. He observes the customs and speech of hawks and tries to imitate them, sometimes injuring himself in the process. He even speaks frankly to the the king himself, adressing him as an equal and not as a king. Reyson may be a prince, but his kingdom is gone, and to the citizens of Phoenicis, it looks like he is ungrateful for the help that Tibarn has so graciously provided. 

Reyson is grateful, but he does not show it in words. He shows it by slipping phrases borrowed from Tibarn into his own speech, by trailing Tibarn and watching as he spars with his men, by attempting to grow stronger at the expense of his own body, unsuited as it is for a lifestyle of meat-eating and vigorous exercise. 

“You don’t have to be a fighter to be valuable, Reyson.” Tibarn tells him, for the umpteenth time. “Everyone has their own strengths, and none are more valuable than the next.”

“Perhaps in theory. But physical prowess is the language of battle.” Reyson replies, in the tone that Tibarn has come to know means that he will not be budged.

“That may be, but if you continue to push your body to do things it was not intended to do, you’ll be no use to anyone.” Tibarn says. “Besides, you don’t need to worry about battle. For that, you have me and all of Phoenicis behind you. If you ever need someone roughed up, just say the word and I’ll take care  of it.”

“That’s not the point!” Reyson says, voice uncharacteristically shrill. “I owe you a great debt for saving my life and taking my family and me in, and I will not ever be able to repay it if I have you fight all my battles for me.”

“Are you still going on about that debt thing? I’ve told you, you don’t owe me nothing. And even if you did, you’d have paid it ten times over with your companionship.” Tibarn says. “If you feel like you need to do more, you could try singing for us once in a while.”

“I do not sing any longer.” Reyson says, voice suddenly hard. “Besides, I have other reasons for wanting to grow stronger.”

“Is this about revenge?” Tibarn asks cautiously. 

Reyson says nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Years pass, and Tibarn begins to hope that perhaps Reyson’s soul is beginning to heal. He retains his fiery temper, but vengeance is no longer at the forefront of his mind. He spends his days with Tibarn and does not speak of debt. Although he still does not sing, he smiles often and even begins to laugh, and when he does he seems to radiate light.

(“Why don’t you sing anymore?” Tibarn asks. “I thought herons were famous for their song.”

“Herons are creatures of balance, and the power of the galdrar comes from the balance in our hearts.” Reyson says. “But I have not felt balance since the destruction of Serenes Forest. If I were to attempt to sing a galdrar now, I do not know what sort of destruction it might bring about.”)

Tibarn cannot imagine life without him, and he often wonders if Reyson’s heron empathy means that he knows the immense and overwhelming fondness that Tibarn holds for him. 

Then one day Reyson disappears, and Tibarn’s world seems to spin off its axis. Reyson leaves a note saying that he will return, but he does not say when, and although Tibarn trusts him, he cannot shake his feeling of unease.

Then Nealuchi comes and tells them what has happened: Reyson had been sold to the Duke of Tanas by Naesala, king of Kilvas and Reyson’s supposed friend. Perhaps the king of Kilvas had planned to rescue him, but it has become irrelevant because Reyson has escaped on his own.

Tibarn’s restlessness turns to white-hot rage at the king of Kilvas and the duke of Tanas, with a flash of pride that Reyson escaped without needing to be rescued. This news is not good news, but it gives him focus, and a deadly sense of calm. All there is to do is find Reyson, and he will do just that. (And then he will visit Naesala and well...Reyson is not the only one who aches for vengeance.)

They find Reyson in what’s left of Serenes Forest, and suddenly it all makes perfect sense. When he asks Reyson if he is considering singing a galdrar of destruction, he is only seeking confirmation for what he already knows.

“Yes.” Reyson says, fearsome in his resolve. “The humans will pay for the genocide that they have committed against my people.”

“Reyson, this isn’t right.” Tibarn tries to reason with him. “Herons are creatures of balance, and the galdrar was not mean to be used this way.”

“Balance is something I have not had for twenty years now, and I have not missed it.” Reyson says, defiant. “But what I have missed is justice, and I will mete it out while I have the chance.”

Reyson’s eyes flash in a way that Tibarn has not seen since the day he pulled Reyson out of the rubble and Tibarn sees that he has to try a new tactic. 

“Reyson, you’re right.” He says. “You’re right. The humans destroyed your forest, and they killed your people, and they deserve any justice that you can deliver. But these humans are not the humans who killed your family, and now is not the time. Come home, and I promise that whatever you want to do to get your revenge, you have my support and the support of all of Phoenicis.” 

Reyson looks at Tibarn, eyes boring into his. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.” Tibarn says, promising recklessly. “Anything you want Reyson, I promise.”

Reyson does not reply for a moment, thinking, then finally says. “Alright.”

Reyson flies over to them and Tibarn releases all the tension he did not realize he’d been holding in his muscles. “Thank you, Reyson.”

“Let’s go home.” Reyson says, and Tibarn’s heart leaps because Reyson has never referred to Phoenicis as home before.

Somehow before they return home, they discover Reyson’s supposedly-dead sister and get caught up in a continent-wide war. But more importantly, Tibarn finally gets to hear Reyson sing, and it is more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. When Reyson and Leanne sing, the forest literally comes alive, color and life returning to what was once barren and dark, and Tibarn feels his heart swelling as he watches the plants grow.

 

* * *

 

 

One war ends and another begins, and throughout all the political turmoil, Reyson is his constant in his life, beautiful and stubborn and passionate. He begins to sing again, both in the course of battle and in the quiet moments in between, and he focuses his anger more specifically, onto the beorc who wrong him rather than onto all beorc. 

One thing that does not change is his stubbornness. Herons are not meant for war; the chaos of the battlefield saps their strength and their bodies are too frail to withstand more than a single hit from an axe or an arrow. Despite all this, Reyson insists on flying into battle with them, confident that Tibarn will protect him and insistent that he _will_  contribute in whatever way he can. 

Tibarn usually does not even try to refuse him, unwilling to patronize him and knowing that it’s a lost cause anyway, but when Reyson passes out hours before they are supposed to meet Ike for battle, Tibarn decides that Reyson is not going onto the battlefield when his body cannot even keep him awake. They have been fighting constantly, so much that even Tibarn, who is usually invigorated by battle, is exhausted, which means that Reyson must be on the bring of collapse. 

He pulls a blanket over Reyson and is about to leave when he realizes that if Reyson wakes up, he _will_  follow them. In a fit of desperation, he spies a length of ropes and uses it to loosely tie Reyson’s wrists to the bed, hoping that Reyson will still be asleep when he returns.

 

Reyson is not asleep when he returns.

Reyson is the first thing that he checks on when he returns from battle, wings still smelling of blood and running on battle endorphins and nothing else. When he enters the tent, he encounters a very awake and very angry Reyson.

“Tibarn.” Reyson says, voice cold and firm. “Untie me _now_.”

Tibarn does, undoing the knows in a matter of seconds. As soon as Reyson has his hands free, he slaps Tibarn across the face, hard. He can see Reyson wince in pain as his hand strikes Tibarn’s cheek, but Tibarn does not feel any physical pain, only the sting of being slapped by the person whose opinion he valued most.

“What were you thinking?” Reyson hisses.

“I was thinking that I didn’t want you to die today.” Tibarn shoots back, suddenly angry.

“I think that should be a decision for me to make, not you.” Reyson says. “All my life, laguz who were not herons have treated me as someone fragile, who cannot take care of himself and cannot be trusted to make his own decisions. You have never treated me like that.” Reyson fixes him with a cold glare. “Until today.”

“Reyson, you were already asleep.” Tibarn says. “If you were to wake up and head to the battlefield, not only would you risk your own life but you’d risk mine, Janaff’s, and Ulki’s.”

“Well then perhaps you should wake me up before flying into battle!” Reyson shouts, stunning Tibarn into silence.

The air is thicker with tension than it has ever been between them as they look at each other, unsure of how to continue.

Reyson breaks the silence. “Tibarn, I know you mean well. I know you meant to protect me. But what you did made me feel like I am a bauble for you to protect, and that is something that I will not bear. Naesala treated me like a bartering tool when he sold me to advance his own ends. Duke Tanas-” Reyson spits the name, voice dripping with venom. “-saw me as a prized piece of art, to be insured and appreciated. More than anything else, I cannot abide being treated like I am an object, no matter how treasured, and especially not by you.”

“I’m sorry.” Tibarn reaches out, slowly to give Reyson the chance to back away, resting his hand on Reyson’s when he does not back away. “I didn’t realize how it would feel to you, because believe me, I never want to make you feel that way. I was only thinking of how I thought I lost you once, when Naesala-” Tibarn says his name with as much venom as Reyson says the name Duke Tanas. “-sold you, and I couldn’t bear to have that happen again.”

“I know that sometimes I am a liability on the battlefield rather than an asset.” Reyson admits. “But I hate to be left behind.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you on the battlefield.” Tibarn says, squeezing Reyson’s hand. “In fact, I’d rather have you where I can see you so I can personally watch your back. I fight better when you’re around too, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t know if you realize it, but we all rely a lot on you and your galdrar in battle.” 

“But no one can fight every battle without rest, and I know that the chaos has been taking a toll on you. I won’t force you to stay back again, but I do hope that you’ll rest when you need it. We need you on the battlefield with us, but we need you alive even more.” Tibarn pauses. “ _I_  need you alive even more.”

Reyson suddenly kisses him softly, free hand cupping Tibarn’s cheek where he had slapped it before.

“What was that for?” Tibarn asks when he pulls back. “Not that I’m complaining.” He adds, smile edging into his voice.

“An apology.” Reyson says. “For not realizing that my own reckless behavior was causing you pain.”

Reyson draws back, extricating his hand from Tibarn’s, but Tibarn loops an arm around Reyson’s slender waist and draws Reyson back to him, kisses him long and hard and deep, one hand on the small of Reyson’s back and the other in his hair.

When they pull apart, Reyson is breathing heavily, eyes dazed. “Was that an apology too?” He asks.

“No.” Tibarn says. “It was a promise. Firstly, that I will never try to make your decisions for you again.”

“And secondly,” Tibarn kisses him again. “That no matter what manner of reckless thing that you do, I will always be by your side.”

"Thank you.” Reyson says, catching one of Tibarn’s hands in his own, lacing his slim fingers between Tibarn’s much larger ones. “Thank you.”

 

They fall into bed together, and as Tibarn undresses Reyson with a sense of almost-reverence, he realizes that it feels like they have always been heading to this place, to the two of them, together in every sense of the word. That it was never a question of whether they would take this step, only _how_  and _when_.

Tibarn wants to take his time to explore every inch of Reyson’s body, running calloused hands along his lithe frame and peppering soft kisses along Reyson’s even softer skin, but Reyson is impatient, insistently drawing Tibarn back up, kissing him with the un-heron-like fierceness that has always defined Reyson, hands roaming wildly over the vast expanses of Tibarn’s chest.

Reyson moves his mouth to Tibarn’s neck and bites down, hard. Tibarn welcomes the pain, just as he welcomes any sensation, any feeling that Reyson brings. 

“You don’t have to be so gentle.” Reyson whispers, lips brushing his ear with every word. “I am not breakable.”

“You are the least fragile person that I have ever met.” Tibarn replies, running his hands through Reyson’s long hair, fascinated. “I’m not gentle because I think I could break you. I’m gentle because I think the world has already brought you enough pain, and I don’t want to ever cause you any more. I want you to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are loved.”

Reyson’s eyes glint with feeling and he says no more about pain or gentleness, only kisses Tibarn again.

Reyson lets Tibarn press him into the mattress and fuck him slowly and gently, wings brushing Reyson’s with every thrust, eyes never leaving his. Tibarn strokes him firmly with his hands, strong and callused but still gentle, and when Reyson cries out his release it feels like a galdrar, not a dirge of ruin or an aria of rebirth, but something that rings much truer in his ears and in his heart.

 

“You do know that I love you, right?” Tibarn asks, arms and wings enfolding Reyson in a warm embrace that makes Reyson feel safer than he ever has before.

“Of course.” Reyson says, unable to stop the smile that finds it way onto his face as he feels Tibarn press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Good.” Tibarn says. “I figured you did, what with your heron empathy powers and all that, but I had to check.”

“Actually, it’s not because of my powers.” Reyson says. “I have never told anyone this, but my empathy has always been stronger for negative emotions than it has for positive ones.”

“That sounds frustrating.” Tibarn remarks.

“Quite.” Reyson agrees. “Especially since herons are supposed to be beings of peace. But it does mean that I know that you feel frustrated with me sometimes, but you worry when I am in danger, and that you feel my pain as if it was your own. I cannot feel your love for me directly through my empathy, but your words and your actions have left me with no doubt.”

“And here I was thinking you’ve known all along that I’ve had the hots for you for almost twenty years now.” Tibarn chuckles.

“Tibarn,” Reyson says, voice suddenly serious. “I hope you realize that I love you as well.”

“I guessed as much, but I’m not sure I’m convinced.” Tibarn says, a smile in his voice. “I might need you to say it again.”

“Oh no,” Reyson says. “If you want to hear it again, you’re going to have to work for it.”

Reyson smiles at him wickedly, and it’s such a far cry from the times when Reyson barely talked, would not smile, and would not sing and Tibarn’s heart has never been fuller.

“I think that I’m up for the challenge.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 150% satisfied with this fic because I feel like I haven't quite gotten the hang of writing Tibarn and Reyson's voices quite yet, even though I adore them as characters and I love their relationship dynamic. Oh well, practice makes perfect, I suppose. I'll consider it practice for any future Tibarn/Reyson fics.
> 
> I write everything late at night and/or on my phone when I'm walking between classes, so it's not unlikely that I have a few typos. If you find any, please let me know. I will be embarrassed at first but then I will be very grateful to you.
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed any of the fic or have any questions/comments/suggestions/etc, please please leave me comments, I live for each and every comment that I get (and when I get the time, I'm going to try to go on a commenting spree for all the other fics in this collection).


	2. Patience (Day 2, Kieran/Oscar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieran calls Oscar a dastard, calls him a fiend, calls him his sworn rival, calls him all manner of things, but he never calls him boring, and Oscar can’t help but like him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, I'm *technically* a little late for Day 2 of FE Rarepair Week, but well...close enough. It's rare enough that I finish two fics in two days, so I'm going to consider this a success.
> 
> This chapter is based on the Day 2 prompt "Patience" because Oscar is the most patient FE character ever simply because he is able and willing to deal with Kieran.

 

Oscar first meets Kieran during his brief stint as a Crimean Royal Knight after a horse race that Oscar wins by large margin. He is about to dismount when the second place rider, a tall young man with shocking red hair, cuts Oscar’s path off with his own horse and identifies himself loudly.

“Well ridden!” The man booms. “You managed to beat the time of Kieran, Crimean Royal Knight in Training, 3rd Squadron, 1st Class, 2nd Floor of Dormitory 4!” 

Oscar is not quite sure how to respond, but luckily Kieran keeps shouting, so he doesn’t have to figure it out.

“And since you have bested me, you...” Kieran stares appraisingly at Oscar. “You squinty-eyed dastard, you have now thrown down the gauntlet. From this day forward, we are sworn rivals, and I will not rest until I have restored my honor by besting you in every contest of knightly prowess! Prepare yourself, Sir...” 

“Oscar.” Oscar supplies. “I’m Oscar. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice is the last thing our ill-fated meeting is!” Kieran booms, building up steam again. “Mark my words, rival of mine, you will rue the day that you crossed Kieran, Crimean Royal Knight in Training, 3rd Squa-”

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll be doing a lot of rueing.” Oscar feels guilty for cutting him off, but it doesn’t look like he was winding down anytime soon and Oscar does have to meet some friends for lunch. “But right now I have a prior engagement. Perhaps we can postpone our rematch to another day?”

“Taking the coward’s way out, are we?” Kieran asks, and Oscar wonders if Kieran has any volume other than Incredibly Loud. “Very well, if you need time to prepare, then so be it! I will not face off against my rival at anything but his absolute best, and victory will be all the sweeter for it! So prepare yourself well, because...”

Oscar begins to edge away experimentally to see if Kieran will notice. He doesn’t seem to notice, or even to stop his soliloquizing, or at least Oscar doesn’t hear him stop until he enters the stables, well out of sight and finally out of earshot of the strange young man.

Oscar assumes that this singular encounter will be just that: a one time occurrence that he can laugh about with his friends later. But once Kieran has entered his life, he begins to show up in all parts of it. 

Kieran finds Oscar on the training fields and insists that Oscar spar with him, ignoring Oscar’s protests that Kieran’s axe has an advantage over his lance Oscar later finds out that Kieran may have a weapon advantage, but that in his exuberance, Kieran is much more likely to hit himself with his axe than he is to hit Oscar.

He finds Oscar in the stables and challenges him to see who is the best at grooming horses. 

“A knight’s horse is a reflection of his own chivalrous spirit! Although your horse may be as squintily handsome as its rider, my horse’s strength and devotion will win the day.” Kieran declares.

“Did you just call me handsome?” Oscar asks.

Kieran splutters, cheeks reddening to match his hair. “Do not try to distract me from our knightly contest with false accusations! I can see right through your villainous plot. Now, to the curry comb!”

He finds Oscar in the mess hall and exclaims about Oscar’s dastardly taste in food. Apparently, a true Royal Crimean Knight would never succumb to the seduction of the vile vegetables. 

“Vegetables are delicious, you just need to know how to cook them.” Oscar says, happily eating his broccoli.

Kieran looks utterly disgusted. “Your falsehoods never cease, rival! There is no greater enemy of manly pursuits than _broccoli_.”

“You just haven’t tasted it cooked right.” Oscar tells him. “They just steam it here, and there’s no seasoning. I’ll cook it for you the right way sometime, and then you can see if you really like it.”

Kieran mumbles something about poison and schemes to which he will not fall prey, but he can’t help but look slightly curious.

 

Oscar’s friends don’t like Kieran constantly popping up. He’s strange, he’s loud, and he doesn’t quite fit in with anyone. They try to commiserate with Oscar about the fact that the local weirdo has taken a liking to him, but Oscar just smiles and says “He’s not so bad, once you get to know him.”

“You’re way too nice, Oscar. No one has the patience to ‘get to know’ that piece of work.” One of Oscar’s friends says.

“Not really. It’s not about being nice, I genuinely do like him.” Oscar says, and his friends stare at him like he’s grown a second head.

The fact is that Oscar _does_  like Kieran. Yes, he is eccentric, and very, very, loud, but well, something about the passion and utter lack of shame with which he approaches life is somehow endearing. 

And strangely enough, being around Kieran is the least stressed that Oscar has ever felt. It’s not extraordinary that Kieran likes him, because everyone likes Oscar. He is a hard worker, a good listener, a dependable friend, and a talented knight, but not obviously talented enough that he makes his classmates with egos that are larger than their skill sets uncomfortable. People like him because whatever they need, Oscar will be it for them.

Kieran, for all his yelling, does not need anything from Oscar other than Oscar simply being there. Kieran has decided that Oscar is his counterpart, his rival, and no matter what Oscar has done since then, he has not swayed from that declaration.

Honestly, it’s flattering. Kieran calls Oscar a dastard, calls him a fiend, calls him his sworn rival, calls him all manner of things, but he never calls him boring, and Oscar can’t help but like him more than most of the other people there.

 

Then Oscar’s father dies and he puts everything on hold-the Crimean Royal Knights, his dreams of working his way up in the ranks, his “rivalry” with Kieran-in order to return home and take care of his two brothers. He tries to tell Kieran that he is leaving, but Kieran does not seem to believe him, or perhaps he refuses to believe him, and Oscar leaves without a proper goodbye.

Oscar loves his family dearly and though he does not resent having to come back to Boyd and Rolf, taking care of a child and a teenager when he is barely an adult himself is quite a strain, and he often thinks fondly on his time in the Crimean Royal Knights, when his biggest responsibility was making sure Kieran got to a healer after he hit himself with his axe after over-enthusiastic sparring.

Oscar thinks of Kieran often, and when Rolf cannot sleep he tells him stories about the great Sir Simpleton and his numerous exploits. Although Boyd claims he is too old for bedtime stories, the tales of Sir Simpleton are funny enough that he cannot help but listen in. Later, when they join the Greil Mercenaries, Sir Simpleton stories become a staple around the campfire.

Three years pass, and Oscar and his brothers build a life with the Greil Mercenaries. It is not as glamorous as his service with the Crimean Knights, and there is no possibility for advancement, but Oscar has always been a man of simple pleasures, and working and fighting beside his family, both blood and otherwise, brings him a sense of contentment. 

Is it what he wants for his whole life? He is not sure, but for now it is certainly good enough. He packs away his old ambitions somewhere deep inside himself, and his time in the Crimean Knights, Kieran included, fade into the background as a fond but distant memory.

 

Then the continent plunges into war and Oscar finds himself in the employ of the princess of Crimea, and suddenly their simple mercenary life becomes much less simple.

Oscar is opening a cell in the dungeon of a Daein-held castle when he hears a still familiar voice.

“Ah! It’s you!” The voice calls, and Oscar peers into the darkness of the cell, barely able to make out the figure inside.

“I could never forget that squint! Knights of Crimea, twelfth regiment...your name is Oscar!” The owner of the voice emerges, but Oscar does not need to see the flame red armor and redder hair to know that improbable as it is, he has just rescued Kieran.

“And you’re...” Oscar trips over the words, mouth working faster than his brain, which is still trying to process the fact that Kieran is here. “You’re Kieran.”

“That is correct!” Kieran declares. “I am Kieran...The same Kieran who has sworn himself to be your eternal rival!“

“Right, right, of course. So...how’ve you been? You look good.” The sentence slips out and Oscar realizes that Kieran _does_  look good, or at least as good as anyone who’s been kept prisoner for goddess knows how long can.

“ As always, your manner is listless and inappropriate. It befits one who would call me foe! You were discharged three years ago...” Kieran launches into a tirade, and as much as Oscar would like to catch up, they are still on a battlefield, so he heads out of the cell and counts on the fact that Kieran will follow.

“Boyd.” Oscar calls to his brother. “Do you have that extra hand axe you always carry? We’ve picked up a new companion and he needs a weapon.”

Boyd turns, confused expression only growing moreso when he sees Kieran, still going on about what a thoughtless dastard Oscar is. He hands the axe over to Oscar with a look that tells him he’s going to have to explain this as soon as they’re not in grave danger.

They win the battle, and return to camp with one more soldier than they left with. In the course of the march back, Kieran has barely stopped talking except to breathe (and even then, only rarely) and Boyd’s expression has slowly but steadily morphed from curious to incredibly annoyed.

Rolf is the first one who sees them return. “Sir Simpleton!” He exclaims upon seeing Kieran, who resembles the Sir Simpleton in Oscar’s tales to a shocking degree.

Kieran is not quite sure what to make of this. “Is this an insult I hear? I am no simpleton! No, I am Kieran, Captain of the 5th Platoon of the Crimean Royal Knights. Who dares to address me in such a way?”

Oscar tries to motion to Rolf to go away while he’s placating Kieran. “Don’t worry Kieran, it’s not an insult. Sir Simpleton is the name of a heroic knight in the stories my brothers and I used to listen to growing up, and you happen to look just like him. If anything, it’s a compliment.”

“Do not try to trick me, rival of mine.” Kieran warns. “If I find out that you have been telling falsehoods, there will be hell to pay.”

“No falsehoods, I promise.” Oscar lies. “Now let’s go meet the rest of the group. And maybe this time, try not to swing your axe while you’re talking.”

 

By this time, the Greil Mercenaries has become a merry band of misfits, and no one bats an eye at Kieran joining their group, although several members do work on making makeshift earplugs.

Like in the Crimean Knights, reactions to Kieran are mixed. Most people tolerate him as well as they can, but some people find him to be worse than a nuisance. Boyd complains that Kierans constant yelling gives him headaches, and Rhys almost passes out after seeing the amount of blood Kieran manages to lose while training by himself. 

Rolf, on the other hand, adores him. Kieran loves to tell stories about his own exploits, and he’d managed to have a lot of  them in the three years since Oscar last saw him. On many occasions, Rolf sits in the kitchen while Oscar is preparing dinner, doing some small task like peeling potatoes and listening to Kieran regale them with another tale of the great Sir Simpleton, who Kieran has embraced as his alter-ego.

For his part, Oscar enjoys having Kieran travel with their group, even if it means he does twice the work that he used to. He spends half his time cleaning up Kieran’s messes, dragging Kieran to Rhys after yet another axe mishap, convincing Kieran that there are no bears that he can fight in this part of Crimea, dissuading Kieran from helping him with dinner after the infamous Potato Peel Incident. 

Living with Kieran is not particularly convenient, and never, ever quiet, but Oscar finds himself laughing more than he has since he left the Royal Crimean Knights.

 

Kieran is always especially keyed up after battles, jittery with extra energy and adrenaline with no way to release it. A jittery Kieran does not bode well for anyone, so Oscar suggests that they go for a walk.

Kieran gives him a suspicious look and opens his mouth, probably to accuse Oscar of leading him into a trap, but Oscar cuts him off.

“I hear there are very large bears around this area, and I believe you’ve told me that fighting bears together is an important part of rivalship.”

“Ah yes!” Kieran says, invigorated. “Fighting bears is a key component of a strong rivalry, along with constant sparring, plenty of mead, and not taking a wife.”

Oscar decides to let that last one slide for the time being, too tired from the battle to probe further. “Then it’s settled. Bear fighting it is, and we can work on the other things later.”

There are no bears anywhere close to the area, but the forest is peaceful and spacious enough that Kieran can release his nervous energy by swinging his axe aimlessly without hitting (many) trees.

They come to a small stream and Oscar suggests sitting by it for a while. Kieran dismounts, but not without protest.

“We’ve been walking for half an hour and nary a bear in sight! Oscar, you dastard, did you lead me hear under false pretenses in order to trick me into the unmanly practice of-” Kieran says the words with as much disdain as he can muster. “ _Heartfelt conversation_?”

“You caught me.” Oscar readily admits. “Come on, while we’re here you may as well sit down.”

Kieran looks unsure and Oscar adds, “We can just have a normal conversation, I won’t hold you to the heartfelt part.”

Kieran sits down ungracefully, talking to fill the silence. “I have never understood the appeal of brooks and their senseless _babbling_. Kieran of the Royal Crimean Knights will not be mocked by a brook!”

Oscar bursts out laughing. “Kieran, you can’t pick a fight with a brook.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Kieran says. “You underestimate me, rival! I could easily fight this brook, and I would defeat it soundly.”

Kieran makes to stand up and Oscar grabs his wrist, gently tugs him back to a sitting position, still chuckling.

“I missed you.” Oscar says.

“What sort of-?” Kieran splutters, flustered. “What drives you to such a fiendish lie? You are-. I don’t-.”

“It’s ok.” Oscar says. “You don’t have to say you missed me too.”

“Missed you? I did not _miss_  you.” Kieran declares. “Perhaps on occasion my axe hand cried out for the blood of my rival, perhaps my honor demanded a rematch with my one true foe, perhaps I developed a thirst that only my rival can quench, but I did not _miss_ you!”

Kieran pauses, then adds, “Well, maybe only a little bit.”

“Whatever you say, Kier-” 

Kieran is not quite as dumb as people think that he is, it’s just that his feelings and his actions both work faster than his brain. He can feel something and act upon it for weeks or months (or in the case of Oscar, years) before his brain catches up and he realizes why he is doing what he’s doing.

“Rival! I will stop your mouth!” Kieran cuts Oscar off, which is a fairly common occurrence, and kisses him, which is anything but common.

Kieran kisses like he does everything else: exuberantly, with too much force and not much finesse. Their teeth clack together and Kieran bites his lip far too hard, but Oscar can’t imagine having it any other way.

Kieran pulls back, looking triumphant, and Oscar rubs his lips with the back of his hand, wiping off the excess saliva.

“Well, I guess we can always work on the kissing thing.” Oscar says.

“Are you implying that you can kiss better than I, oh rival of mine?” Kieran retorts, indignant and slightly flushed. “If it is a challenge that I hear, we must kiss again, and again, until you concede that the master of kissing in this rivalry is I, Kieran, Captain of the 5th Platoon of th-”

Oscar decides that for once it’s his turn to be the one cutting Kieran off mid-sentence, and shuts him up with another kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again I'm not 100% happy with the later part of this because I literally started drifting off to sleep while writing it so I had to scramble to get it done. It's more cheesy than I tend to aim for and also a bit rushed, so I might come back and edit it later when I have the time/am fully awake. It's also my first time writing Oscar/Kieran, so I'm still trying to work on getting the voices right. Feel free to comment and let me know if you think that I managed it (or not, as it may be)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented/left kudos on chapter 1, I really really appreciated the lovely compliments and the constructive criticism! Y'all are the best and I'm so happy to be part of such a lovely fandom <3


	3. Perfect (Day 3, Azama/Subaki, Curious)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time Azama catches so much as a glimpse of Subaki, his fingers itch with the desire to take him apart, piece by camellia-scented piece.
> 
> A super late contribution to FE Rarepair Week for the Day 3 prompt "Curious"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am so sorry that I fell down on FE Rarepair Week, I found out I got accepted to a scholarship I really wanted in the middle of the week and I was so happy I blew off all my plans, fic-related and otherwise. Thank you to the mods for reblogging late work!!!
> 
> Second, I just checked and I found that someone else wrote Azama/Subaki for rarepair week and I am fucking pumped to read it (although I am a tiny bit miffed I don't get to claim that I posted the first Azama/Subaki fic on AO3, but that's my own damn fault for not finishing this when I planned to.)
> 
> Thirdly, this chapter deserves a few warnings and I'm not 100% sure how to go about them. First of all, this isn't really a healthy relationship, so if that's not your thing, consider yourself warned. Additionally, there's a scene that involves blood, Subaki intentionally cutting himself (but not in the way that is typically called self-harm so I hesitate to tag it as such), and vaguely kink-related vibes that are completely unnegotiated and generally unadvisable. This fic is kinda weird...sorry y'all.
> 
> Oh, and also, I know this might not 100% jive with Azama and Subaki's support convos and I'm aware of that. I was thinking more of their personalities and how they might have interacted if it had gone a different way than their supports did.

 

 

Whenever people ask Azama why he decided to become a monk and devote his life to healing others, he tells them it’s because people say the most fascinating things when they think they’re about to die. Most people think it’s a dark joke and laugh uncomfortably, not realizing til much later that he’s entirely serious.

When he first meets Subaki, Subaki doesn’t laugh, just looks at him quizzically, like Azama is an animal that he’s seen before but he just can’t remember the name of.

“This is where most people laugh.” Azama supplies helpfully.

“Why would I laugh?” Subaki says, voice polished smooth as rocks in a stream and flowing like honey. “I didn’t think it was funny.”

Azama’s grin grows even wider. “Oh, it’s going to be very fun to know you.”

“I’m assuming you’re trying to say that it’s nice to meet me,” Subaki’s voice is the epitome of polite disinterest and Azama can’t wait to change that. “And for politeness’ sake, I say likewise to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be off.”

Subaki retreats without so much as a glance back at Azama, leaving the scent of camellia blossoms in his wake.

 

Azama’s mother had been a basara and his father had been a clockmaker; their marriage was peaceful but not particularly joyful and Azama figured out from a young age that they stayed together because it was easier than starting over.

From his mother, Azama had inherited his mild talent for magic and his mild talent for lances. She tried to teach him both and he took to neither, remaining just mediocre enough that she eventually gave up on trying to make him care. His becoming a monk had been as much teenage rebellion against her idea of what he _should_  be able to do as it had been anything else.

Azama had also inherited his father’s insatiable curiosity and propensity for taking things apart to see what makes them tick, the only difference being that Azama found humans infinitely more fascinating than clocks.

Getting under people’s skin in order to get to the machinery underneath was his dearest hobby, nay, his calling, and he never met someone who’s mind he wanted to get into more than Subaki. Every time Azama catches so much as a glimpse of Subaki, his fingers itch with the desire to take him apart, piece by camellia-scented piece.

 

  
“You’ve really got the perfect situation figures out with this whole perfection deal.” Azama says conversationally, without preamble. “If anyone ever points out your imperfections, you can brush them off because they are imperfect by sheer virtue of not being you. It’s quite clever, really.”

Subaki looks up from grooming his pegasus, annoyed. “Do you have a point, Azama?”

“Just making conversation. Since you’re perfect, I figured you would be a great conversation partner.”

“I am.” Subaki says. “Perhaps you’re just not cultured enough to appreciate it.”

“Arrogant and rude?” Azama tries to feign shock, but he’s enjoying himself too much. “Doesn’t sound very perfect to me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with confidence and a desire to be treated with respect.” Subaki says, brows furrowed.

“Ah ah, careful! If you leave your face like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” Azama warns gleefully.

Subaki’s face twitches as his desire to maintain his looks conflicts with his absolute annoyance with the entire situation and Azama can’t help laughing out loud.

“Well, I’m off to minister to the weary and cure the sick, but this has been lovely.” He says, giving Subaki a jaunty wave. “I’m still not convinced of the perfection of your conversational skills, so I hope we can chat again later.”

 

 

Azama asks almost every member of the Hoshidan court about Subaki. It’s a mixed bag in terms of results; Saizo looks at him as if he’s insane and also potentially suicidal, Oboro sneers and insults his hair, and Hana almost decks him, but he scrapes together some information from Hinata and Orochi.

Hinoka calls him in to ask him about it, looking weary as a mother with too many disobedient children. It is one of Azama’s favorite expressions, second only to her defiant rage.

“Why are you interrogating the whole court about Subaki?” She asks, face pinched in anticipation of the answer.

“I’m providing him with spiritual counseling.” Azama says. The more blatant the lie, the more likely it is to be believed. “The more I know about him, the better I can help him.”

Hinoka looks at him with a face that is part-reproach, part-disbelief, part-throwing her hands up and ridding herself of any responsibility for the situation. It is Azama’s fifth favorite Hinoka expression.

“Did anyone believe that load of pegasus shit?”

“Hinata.” Azama says, and Hinoka rolls her eyes because of course he did. “And Setsuna, of course. Sakura probably would have but I didn’t bother her out of respect for you, and Oboro might have believed me but she didn’t listen to me long enough to find out.”

“If you talked to all the retainers, you’re lucky you got out unscathed. I wouldn’t be responsible for your recovery if Hana put a hole in you.”

“Ah, but then you’d have to find a new retainer,” Azama says. “And I’m irreplaceable.”

“Unfortunately.” Hinoka mumbles, under her breath.

 

 

Azama finds out that Subaki had a younger sister who had thought that he could do no wrong, that he was perfect. They had been very close, but she had been killed along with his parents when their village was attacked by bandits. Subaki was the only one who survived long enough to be rescued by the Hoshidan sky knights. Without a home to go back to, he decided to join the sky knights and eventually worked his way up to being a royal retainer.

“You don’t have to worry about being perfect for your sister, you know.” Azama tells Subaki. He’s found that starting conversations with pleasantries does nothing but waste valuable time before Subaki storms off, annoyed.

His words have the desired effect. Subaki stiffens instantly, tension filling his frame.

“What are you talking about?” Subaki asks, voice low and dangerous.

“Your sister. I’m guessing your little perfection thing comes from her idolizing you when she was alive. You feel guilty that you couldn’t protect her and so you strive for perfection to live up to her expectations and to avoid the same thing happening to Lady Sakura, who you view as a proxy for your dead sister.” Azama says, breezily as if he were discussing the weather. “You shouldn’t worry about it though, since you’re sister’s dead and couldn’t care less about whether you’re perfect or not.”

“I prefer to think that my sister is still with me.” Subaki says, body still on high alert.

“You can prefer to think anything you want, but it won’t change the reality of the situation.” Azama says. “Dead is dead is dead. No point moping about it.”

“Aren’t you a monk?” Subaki asks, incredulous. “You’re supposed to believe in the afterlife and bringing peace into people’s lives, not taking it away.”

“Well, the church and I have a few fundamental disagreements, but that’s ok.” Azama says. “I took the job anyway because I look good in the robes.”

Subaki looks at him incredulously. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.” Azama replies cheerfully. 

“I hate you.” Subaki says, voice much more emotional than his normal smooth baritone.

“I think I can live with that. It means that you’re thinking about me.” Azama says, and leaves Subaki glaring and clenching his fists.

 

  
Azama has always known how to wield a lance, having been taught by his mother at an early age. But he finds inflicting violence much more boring than watching others do it and then healing them so they can inflict more violence, so when he becomes a monk he embraces the nonviolent lifestyle and pretends to be completely inept with weapons.

“Which end is the stabby end?” He asks Hinoka, holding one of her javelins upside down and tilting it like he would a staff.

“Don’t play dumb.” Hinoka rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen you cleaning my weapons, I can tell you know how to fight.”

“Perhaps.” Azama admits, thrusting with the blunt end of the javelin. “But I’ve taken a solemn vow of nonviolence, so cleaning lances is all I will do.”

“So you’re saying you’d prefer to let people die protecting you rather than fight alongside them?”

“You could interpret it that way, I suppose.” Azama says. “Ideally, they won’t die because I’ll heal them.”

He extends the javelin like he would a heal staff, but the javelin is much longer and the sharp end nicks his leg.

“Whoops.” Azama looks completely unconcerned that he’s bleeding onto his robes. Hinoka has that dumbfounded look on again, the one that she wears whenever she’s asking herself why the hell she choose such worthless retainers.

It’s an expression Azama sees a lot.

“Fine, have it your way.” She says, giving up. “But if we ever get into a situation where things are so dire that we need every last man, I want you to pick up a lance right side up and fight by my side.”

“Sure.” Azama agrees. “But only if I get to pretend that I’ve suddenly learned how to use lances thanks to the magic of master seals. I don’t get many chances to show off my theatrical ability.”

“Whatever.” Hinoka says. “As long as you fight with us afterwards, I couldn’t care less how you reveal it.”

 

 

Subaki hasn’t been talking to him lately, and Azama is mildly put out, even though he most likely deserves it. Luckily, Azama doesn’t believe in absolute morality; he also doesn’t believe in fate, which means that he has no problem tracking Subaki down instead of leaving it up to chance. 

“Let’s spar.” Azama says as he walks up behind Subaki, who is grooming his pegasus.

Subaki jumps in surprise, turns around to glare at Azama. “What, are you going to hit me with a bloom festal?”

“No, with lances.” Azama says.

Subaki stares at him incredulously, a look that Azama has grown quite familiar with. Luckily, he likes it. “You don’t use lances.” He says, talking slowly like Azama is a child, or a very, very stupid adult. 

“Then it should be easy for you to win.” 

Subaki hesitates, thinking it over. “Fine.” He eventually agrees. “But only because I need to blow off steam, and you can’t get mad if I hurt you.”

"Same to you.” Azama shoots back.

 

 

Subaki leaves his pegasus behind as they head to the training grounds, because even though he is willing to fight someone who doesn’t know how to use a lance, he’s not willing to do so on a pegasus, because that would just be unfair. They both select practice lances and square off against each other, Subaki holding his lance fiercely with perfect form, while Azama waves it around like a flag.

“Ready?” Azama calls out.

“If you are.” Subaki says, and charges.

Much to Subaki’s surprise, Azama blocks his thrust, although he looks like he barely moved. Taking advantage of Subaki’s confusion, he counterstrikes, pushes him backwards. Subaki does not stay stunned for long but the few minutes for which he is are incredibly satisfying.

They trade blows back and forth; it is a good fight, but once Subaki recovers from the shock that Azama does know his way around a lance after all, it becomes clear that Subaki is still the more skilled of the two. He pushes Azama back until his back touches the wall, disarms him with a quick twist of his lance, and presses the end of his lance to Azama’s throat.

“I win.” Subaki says, breathing a little hard.

“Well,” Azama says, pushing the lance away with his hand as casually as if he were swatting a fly. “I suppose you had to at least once.”

“I’m surprised you’re not secretly an archer.” Subaki grumbles as he puts away his lance. “It would be just like you to want to bring me down to your level.”

Azama smiles, showing all his teeth. “I don’t need arrows to do that.”

 

 

Every few days, Azama gets bored and bugs Subaki about his perfection, listing ridiculous things upon ridiculous things in an attempt to make Subaki admit that he’s not perfect. Azama has little hope of succeeding, but the game itself is quite fun.

“We know that you take meticulous care of your hair and body.” Azama says. “And we know that you are a first-class Hoshidan Sky Knight. But there’s still so much about you that we don’t know.”

"What’s your point?” Subaki says curtly, unsure where this is going but sure that he is not going to like it. 

“I just think it’s interesting that you claim to be perfect, but don’t give us any proof other than that you think you are, and since you’re perfect you can’t be wrong.” Azama shrugs. “It’s a little thing called circular logic, but since you’re perfect, I’m guessing you already know that.”

“Ok, name one flaw of mine.” Subaki challenges.

“That’s not really a fair challenge, because I haven’t gotten the chance to verify your qualities firsthand.” Azama says, voice deceptively light. “I know that you’re a skilled fighter, because we’ve sparred. I know that you have impressive social skills because I’ve observed you talking with others. I know that you have a beautiful face and a very attractive body, because I have eyes. But I don’t know whether you know how to use that body, so it wouldn’t really be fair to call you perfect, now would it?” 

“What are you saying?” Subaki grits out, voice strained. “That you won’t admit that I’m perfect unless I fuck you?”

“Well, I’d personally prefer that I be the one to fuck you.” Azama says, casually as if he were discussing the weather. “But in essence, yes.”

“You’re crazy.” Subaki says.

Azama flashes a smile at him. “So I’ve been told.”

“Why do you think,” Subaki says desperately. “That I care what you think about me at all?”

“Maybe you don’t.” Azama shrugs again. “It’s just an offer.”

Subaki stares at him, fists clenched, thinking so hard that Azama can picture his brain working, gears whirring like the insides of a beautiful, beautiful clock that’s been wound much too tight. He doesn’t seem to be sure who he’s more concerned about arguing with, Azama or himself.

“Fine.” Subaki finally says, looking at Azama defiantly.

“What what that?”

“Fine.” Subaki repeats. “I’ll do it. But only to prove you wrong.”

To his surprise, Azama bursts out laughing, loud peals of laughter ringing out through the camp. Subaki looks around frantically, hoping that Azama’s cackling has not drawn the attention of anyone nearby.

“What’s so funny?” Subaki hisses.

“You never stop surprising me.” Azama replies. “I didn’t think you’d actually be willing to let me fuck you just to prove a point.”

“Maybe that shows that you should stop underestimating me.” 

“Maybe. Well, this has been fun, but you can stop with the false bravado, I’m not going to call your bluff today.” Azama says. “I wouldn’t fuck someone who’s only agreed because he feels like he was cornered.”

“So _you_  were the one bluffing!” Subaki exclaims, stuck somewhere between frustration and mad, wild relief. 

“I wouldn’t say that. I’d be happy to carry through on my end of the deal, but as a man of the cloth, I do have a moral code to uphold, and consent is a very important part of that.” Azama grins toothily. “If you ever decide you want to take me up on the offer of your own free will, you know where I live.”

“Your morals force you to respect consent when it comes to sex, but they don’t prevent you from trying to psychologically torture everyone you meet?” 

“What can I say?” Azama says. “The gods move in mysterious ways, and I am but their humble servant.”  

 

 

Their battles grow fiercer and more frequent and Hinoka tells Azama that it is time for him to start pulling his weight and using an actual weapon like any other decent retainer, tossing a master seal at him and warning him not to make too big of a scene.

Azama takes full advantage of his fake class change, casting a faulty heal staff to create a burst of light as he pretends to activate the master seal. Before the light subsides, he slips the master seal into his robe and grabs a lance he’d stashed nearby.

“Oh my, I suddenly know how to use a lance!” Azama exclaims, making a few experimental thrusts. “How lovely!”

Subaki peers at him suspiciously from his position nearby. Azama may have chosen this location strategically, knowing that Subaki always cleans his lance hear at this time of day, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Why didn’t your clothes change when you used the master seal?” Subaki asks loudly.

Azama flashes Subaki a bright smile. “Maybe it’s because I’m already perfect, just the way I am.”

 

 

“Help me practice.” Azama tells Subaki, interrupting an incredibly boring conversation he and Hana were having about the merits of different types of metal used in forging weapons. 

“You do realize that it’s considered good manners to greet someone before launching into a conversation?” Subaki says dryly, unamused. Hana glares at him.

“Manners are a construct created by humans attempting to bring order into a chaotic world by imposing arbitrary moral values onto it.” Azama replies. “But if it makes you feel better, good afternoon Subaki, I hope that you are faring well on this lovely wartime day. If it pleases you, I would greatly appreciate your help in practicing for the next battle.” 

Hana looks like she is about to yell at him for deliberately ignoring her, but Subaki puts a hand on her shoulder and instead of yelling, she turns her glare onto Subaki, shrugs his hand off her shoulder, and flounces away.

Subaki looks at Hana’s retreating back, looks back at Azama, looks at Hana again. Azama figures there’s about a 50% chance that he can goad Subaki into doing what he wants, but that might get lower if Subaki’s chivalry thing kicks in.

“Fine.” Subaki says. “Let me go get my lance.”

“Only,” He adds quickly. “Because I’m angry at you and trying to stab you in the name of sparring sounds quite appealing right now.”

Azama follows Subaki to his tent and then to the clearing that the troops like to spar in, letting Subaki get out his lance and drop into fighting stance before saying. “Actually, I didn’t need your help with lances. I need your help to practice healing.”

Subaki looks like he wants to hurl his lance at Azama like a javelin. “What.” He says, intonation more like a threat than a question.

“Healing takes practice too, in case you didn’t realize.” Azama says. “A lot of non-healers think that the rod does all the work, but that’s not true. It takes concentration for the wielder to effectively channel his or her magic through the rod.”

“That doesn’t explain why you need me.” 

“I can’t practice healing without wounds, and I can’t heal myself. It’s the rule, you know.” Azama says.

“What rule?” Subaki asks, suspicious.

“The rule of magic, of course.” Azama says. His moral code does not forbid lying, as long as the lies are so blatant that the listener is shocked into believing them. 

“The rule of magic...” Subaki repeats incredulously, then shakes his head, deciding that it is not worth it. “So let me get this straight. You want me to injure myself so you can practice healing? Why on earth would I agree to this?”

“Because without practice, I cannot learn to heal more effectively. And my healing skills could make the difference between life and death on the battlefield. Your death, perhaps. Or even the death of Lady Sakura.” Azama says. “If you’d prefer, I can be the one to injure you.”

“No, I’ll do it myself.” Subaki replies quickly, then realizes what he has just said. “Wait, I never said I would do this at all!”

“I believe you just did. You can back out if you want, but I don’t know if that would be very perfect of you.”

Subaki is far too easy to back into a corner, and Azama loves it about him.

Subaki inspects his lance, as if trying to figure out the easiest way to cause an injury without it being too painful. 

Azama hands him a knife. “Try this, it might be easier.”

Subaki takes it without meeting Azama’s eyes, holds it over his left forearm and after a moment’s hesitation, draws a shallow gash down his arm, wincing as the knife touches his skin.

Subaki stares at the thin red line as blood begins to well up, barely acknowledging Azama until he murmurs a few words and waves his bloom festal, making the wound close up before Subaki’s eyes, blood seeming to evaporate into thin air.

“This is wrong.” Subaki says, voice sounding far away. “This is not normal.”

“Sure it is.” Azama says. “All you have to do is redefine what you think is normal. Now, again.”

Subaki repeats the motion on the other arm this time, and Azama heals him so quickly that Subaki barely sees any red.

“That was too easy. Do another spot this time, and try to make it deeper.”

Subaki obeys as if entranced, rolling up one leg of his light cotton trousers to reveal the skin of his calf. He brings the knife to his skin again, and Azama can tell by the twitching in his face that he is pushing harder.

Azama heals him again, and Subaki moves onto the other leg without prompting, looking only at the wounds as they open and close without sparing a glance for Azama. 

They continue the pattern of harming and healing several times, Subaki creating wounds and Azama making them disappear.

 _How symbolic_. Azama thinks. _Or maybe ironic._

With every glow of the bloom festal Subaki looks more and more distant, and Azama thinks that although his experiment has been quite fruitful, it may be time to bring Subaki back to earth.

“Only one more.” Azama says, and Subaki starts at the sound of his voice. “Let me do it this time.”

Wordlessly, Subaki hands him the knife.

Subaki’s shirt has a lower neckline than he usually wears, leaving his collarbone exposed. Azama chooses that spot to place the knife and Subaki shivers when he feels it touch his skin, then grows deathly still as Azama opens up a new wound, longer and deeper than the previous ones. 

He puts down the knife and picks up the bloom festal, but pauses before casting the spell, gazing at Subaki as an artist might gaze at their work. Subaki does not shirk from his gaze this time, closes his eyes and runs his fingers along the wound as it closes.

Subaki does not open his eyes until the entire gash is healed. 

“Will that leave a scar?” He asks, trying to get a good look at the skin that was just healed.

“No. For a wound that minor, an experienced healer like myself should have to problem healing without leaving a scar.”

“Good.” Subaki says, rubbing his fingers over his collarbone and looking disappointed. 

 

 

“What do you think love is?” Azama asks Subaki, without preamble. It is a trite question with many stupid answers and few good ones, but Azama finds it interesting to hear which stupid answer people choose.

“Love is when you care for someone despite their flaws.” Subaki answers almost instantly.

It is a trite answer, but it is delicious anyways, and Azama savors it.

“But then, if you have no flaws, how will you ever know if anyone truly loves you?” Azama asks.

Subaki does not answer, and Azama reflects that Subaki’s flaws are what he likes the best.

 

 

The battles grow harsher and Azama’s hands become more accustomed to the feel of his lance than of his rod, although they certainly have need of both. Everyone is weary, and when Azama tries to goad Subaki into bickering with him, Subaki only glares. 

“Be careful, you’ll get wrinkles!” Azama calls to him, enjoying the sight of Subaki’s furrowed brow.

But Subaki doesn't respond, just turns away in the direction of his tent, and Azama is much more bothered than he has any right to be.

 

 

During their next battle, Subaki is struck across the cheek with a shuriken coated with some kind of poison. The shuriken itself barely hurts him, but the poison makes his muscles seize up, and only the combination of Azura’s song and Azama’s staff restore him to a somewhat normal condition.

After the battle, Subaki glances into the reflection of Benny’s armor by accident and sees that the shuriken left a scar. He makes a strangled sound as his hand flies to his cheek, ignoring Benny’s concern. 

Stunned, Subaki stables his pegasus, sheds half his armor, stares at himself in the small mirror he keeps in his tent, sheds the other half of his armor, breaks the mirror and does not clean up the pieces, and marches angrily to Azama’s tent.

Azama opens the tent flap before Subaki reaches it and for once, neither of them say anything as Subaki storms in, grabs Azama’s forearms, digging his nails in much too hard, and puts his mouth over Azama’s like a plea.

Even now, Subaki kisses gently and with refinement, the very epitome of a gentleman. It would be perfect for some youngest daughter of a noble family wanting to swept off her feet by a dashing night, but Azama is no blushing maiden. He does not like the way that Subaki kisses and so he does not let Subaki kiss him for long, choosing instead to move his mouth to Subaki’s neck and bite down, hard.

Subaki gasps breathlessly and his entire body shivers, and he lets Azama bite him again, lets Azama draw him down onto his tiny cot and undress him, lets Azama lay him bare and fuck him.

Azama peels off Subaki’s clothes meticulously and with mechanical precision, and Subaki feels his layers removed one by one until all that remains is the clockwork within, whirring madly as his heartbeat quickens every time Azama touches him. 

Azama takes him apart with every touch, with deft fingers and chapped lips and sharp teeth unraveling more and more of the identity that Subaki has spent years weaving, and Subaki cannot help but cry out for more.

As he fucks Subaki, Azama caresses his face, surprisingly gentle, and whispers that he is so good, that he is _perfect_ , and Subaki shudders under his touch because he knows that it is a lie.

 

 

“What about you? What do you think love is?” Subaki asks out of the blue one day, picking up a thread of conversation that has been hanging loose for weeks.

“If you even believe in love, that is.” He adds.

Azama considers it. “I believe in love, I’m just not sure it’s a concept that applies to me.”

Subaki’s face is contemplative, free of relief or disappointment.

“But if I did want to engage in the silly practice of defining abstract concepts.” Azama adds. “I think I’d say that love is when you never get bored.”

 

 

Subaki is naked when they next hear the horns that signal an ambush; he grabs his pants and Azama tosses him a shirt and they rush out of the tent, weapons in hand. Even disheveled and disoriented and pegasus-less, Subaki rushes to the front lines, recklessly brave and bravely reckless.

Azama hangs back and watches him charge into the fray, hair full of tangles, neck covered in bite marks, and mind full of Azama. 

 _Perfect_. He thinks. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you thank you thank you for reading this, weird rarepair fic that it was! I'd appreciate any feedback because I feel like this fic was a bit odd since I was going for a different kind of relationship than I was with the others (basically this one is incredibly fucked up and the other two were sweet and mostly functional) and I'm not sure whether I'm satisfied with the execution.
> 
> Also please let me know if you catch any typos! I'm almost certain there have to be some, I wrote too much of this right before falling asleep for there not to be...


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